In another unexpected twist, Zhu’s fight was called next. The Ethralite rose silently from his seat, his movements measured, almost absentminded, as if the looming battle was but a distant thought in a much larger web.

  A tense, almost suffocating silence had gripped the waiting room after the last fight’s conclusion. Zhu had seen it, the way that silence carved itself across Tunde’s face, molding into a potent, barely restrained fury. It was a sight that gave even Zhu, a divine beast in mortal guise, a moment of pause.

  But beneath that pause was pride, pride in how far Tunde had come. They were brothers in all but blood, forged together through hardship and battles that left scars in both body and spirit. Though Zhu often appeared detached, even carefree in a way that many mistook for apathy, he was far from it.

  Beneath the calm exterior, the Ethralite was a storm, watching, calculating, waiting. He had long known that the path he and Tunde walked was treacherous, one lined with obstacles designed to break lesser men. And for the longest time, Zhu had wondered if Tunde would ever emerge from the cocoon of hesitance, the shyness that clung to him—traits unbecoming of a cultivator of his caliber.

  It had always surprised Zhu how blind Tunde was to his own presence on the battlefield. The so-called Dark Fist—or Wastelander, as some whispered, was like a force of nature. He adapted, absorbed, and returned whatever was thrown at him with ruthless, brutal precision.

  He was a mirror in combat, reflecting pain, fear, and power back tenfold, an unstoppable cycle of violence. And now, as Tunde watched his friend Zehra—who, in her quiet, oblivious way, couldn’t see how much she had grown to care for him—fall and disappear behind the curtains of the arena, something inside him snapped.

  Zhu felt it. The final, fragile vestiges of the old Tunde, the careful Tunde, the hesitant Tunde—shattering. It was exhilarating. A thrill Zhu hadn’t realized he craved.

  Now they could truly stand their ground. Now, Tunde had tasted the consequences of loss, and the gears of a leader’s mind had begun to turn. When Zhu’s name had been called, Tunde had simply turned to him, violet eyes that had once been a muted grey now blazing with a new, tempered resolve.

  “You know what you need to do,” he said quietly.

  Zhu had nodded once, a silent promise exchanged between brothers.

  Two losses back-to-back were unacceptable. The perception would start to fester—that Tunde alone carried their team, that the others were simply passengers. Zhu intended to crush that notion, utterly and without mercy.

  As he walked, memories surged—fragments of another life bleeding into the present. At first, they had been disorienting, troubling in their implications. Was he truly that tyrant? Would he inevitably become the same brutal, unyielding Divine Beast who had once ruled the Jade Empire eons ago, only to be struck down by the Sun Queen herself?

  And if so, what did that mean for the bonds he had forged in this life? For Tunde? For the others?

  For the longest time, he had refused to confront the answers, unwilling to test the weight of such knowledge against the fragile ties he cherished. Especially not with Tunde, who looked at him not as a monster, but as a brother. It had been Ifa who had seen through the facade, who had gently peeled away the mask Zhu wore—revealing not a tyrant, but a survivor. The Tyrant had simply been a shell, cracked and discarded, though the knowledge, the techniques, the strength—they had remained.

  And they had propelled him. He had ascended to Highlord—then, just a day before, he had shattered yet another ceiling, breaking through to the Peak of the Highlord Realm. He was, by every measure, in a realm of his own compared to most True Beasts.

  Then came the thunder roc’s core—its will, its essence—and Zhu had consumed it, dominated it, absorbed its power. The residual will of the thunder roc had fought back, as expected, but Zhu had crushed it beneath his own.

  Cultivation for Divine Beasts, as far as his memories told him, was different from that of humans, at least until they reached the lost realms of Paragon and beyond. The core of a beast held more than just energy; it was the vessel of bloodline abilities, the distilled essence of their nature. And Zhu had absorbed the thunder roc’s gift—its command of lightning—though only to a certain degree.

  Now, standing on the stage, he exhaled softly. The arena was a battlefield of its own beauty—jagged jade crystals jutted from the ground, reaching towards the heavens, while low-hanging clouds roiled across the stage, crackling with golden lightning. It was almost poetic.

  Why do so many beasts love lightning? Zhu mused idly before setting the thought aside. Across from him, emerging from the other side of the stage, was Kavashi of the Golden Fang. She wore white and gold robes that shimmered faintly with Ethra, and in each hand, she wielded twin axes crackling with lightning—new weapons, a departure from the greatsword she usually carried.

  Zhu tilted his head slightly, studying her. There was admiration there, albeit fleeting—it was rare to see a clan of True Beasts rise as high as the Golden Fang had, without being hunted down by cultivators seeking their cores. Perhaps it was because they lived at the far edges of the Empire, near the Herald enclaves—where no faction dared wage war without the blessings of those ancient beings.

  Still, admiration was fleeting. What was a Corespawn to a True Beast? And what were True Beasts—those pale echoes of power—to a Divine Beast?

  By now, the Talahan clan knew what he was. That much was certain. And when the time came for them to turn on Tunde, Zhu had no doubt he would be one of their prime targets.

  Kavashi bared her fangs at him, golden feline eyes narrowing as her aura flared—lightning crackling along her fur, her axes humming with power as she rose into the air.

  “You owe me a fight,” she snarled, voice thick with anticipation and the promise of violence.

  Zhu regarded her with a faint, almost pitying smile.

  She was strong—there was no doubt. He had tasted her Ethra once, and he had seen the glimmer of what she could have been—if the old ways still thrived, if the power of Adamath still flowed freely across the world. But they did not. And now, he would show her what she—and the rest of the world—had forgotten.

  Once, the Jade Tyrant had ruled an empire.

  It was time he reminded them—what it meant to fear the divine.

  Zhu simply stood his ground, the faintest of smiles tugging at the corner of his lips, as if this was all a formality—just another moment in the long, endless river of time. His gaze flicked briefly to the announcer, who raised a hand, holding it there like the pause before a storm, and then, with a sharp, decisive motion, brought it down.

  “Begin!”

  Kavashi moved like the lightning she embodied—fast, violent, unrelenting. A golden lion of crackling lightning erupted behind her, roaring with primal ferocity, its jaws opening wide as it surged forward, a manifestation of her will and power. Zhu knew the intent—it was meant to strike at his soul, to pin him in place, to leave him vulnerable to her speed and ferocity. She was not taking chances. She was coming for the kill.

  Cute.

  His soul—the core of his very existence—had always been the most protected part of him, a fortress built from the scars of a past life long since burned away. It was instinct, a defense honed from the moment of his rebirth, shaped by the pain and loss of what had been. The lioness’s roar brushed against him like a summer breeze—harmless, almost laughable.

  And then they moved—blurs of force and fury tearing across the stage. The world itself seemed to bend and warp around them as they clashed, the audience catching only glimpses of their figures—gold and jade flashing like twin stars colliding.

  Kavashi’s twin axes carved through the air, arcs of golden lightning and Ethra-infused essence flame tearing grooves into the jade crystals beneath them. Each strike was a symphony of destruction—precision, power, and deadly intent. But Zhu—he didn’t bother with weapons. His hands, clad in jade-scaled gauntlets of his own Ethra, ignited with his essence flame, swatted the soulbound axes aside like toys. Every movement was calculated, precise, deliberate.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  He found the thought distasteful—resorting to his true form. But this wasn’t about personal preference; it was about making a statement. Every act, every motion, was intentional. True Beasts were flawed, limited creatures.

  Unlike humans, whose cultivation paths were fluid, the bloodlines of True Beasts often chained them to rigid forms—elemental abilities tangled with runic formations that seemed almost… desperate. As if Adamath itself, in its infinite wisdom, had cobbled together these abominations as a stopgap—an answer to the growing threat of human cultivators.

  Above them, the sky cracked open—golden lightning splitting the clouds as a massive, gleaming sword of raw power began to coalesce from Kavashi’s formation, humming with lethal intent. The sword fell, slow at first, but with growing momentum, its aura distorting the very air.

  Zhu twisted through a vicious cross of her axes, slipping into her guard, and drove a single, brutal punch into the chestplate of her lightning-forged armor. The impact rang out like a thunderclap, the armor shattering in an explosion of sparks and golden shards.

  He glanced up at the descending blade, watching it gather power like a storm on the horizon, and exhaled slowly.

  No… not yet.

  Then he struck. His fists, shrouded in jade Ethra shaped like clawed gauntlets, blurred into motion—each blow a miniature disaster. The Jade Tyrant had returned, and he brought hell with him.

  Columns of jade crystal erupted from the stage, torn from the ground by his will, before he shattered them into spears, each one burning with his essence flame. They filled the sky, blotting out the light, even impaling the golden blade, slowing its descent.

  Kavashi’s gaze snapped upward as the darkness closed in—projected spears blotting out the heavens like a storm of death. And yet, she grinned. Lightning bloomed along her striped skin, white and black patterns glowing gold as Ethra thundered above her. Power crackled, booming with thunder, and Zhu saw it.

  He saw it.

  “Yes… reach inwards,” he murmured, voice low, almost reverent.

  “Pull it out. Prove to me that you deserve to exist.”

  She took a single step—and vanished. Her axe was at his throat in the blink of an eye. But before her triumph could fully blossom, he slammed her into the ground, a shockwave of force rippling across the arena. The impact shattered the jade beneath her, and the lightning in her body sputtered, dying out like a candle in a hurricane.

  One of the unexpected gifts of being bound to Tunde—of their souls intertwined—was that Zhu had been able to tap into an aspect of the void itself. Force. Raw, elemental force. And now, as Kavashi lay pinned beneath him, trembling under the weight of his will, he turned his gaze upward to the golden blade still descending, locked in a struggle against the web of jade spears.

  Her eyes, bright with rage, managed to find his. That alone impressed him. She was holding her own—barely—but it was a testament to her strength. He gave her a nod of quiet acknowledgment. And then he snapped his fingers.

  The spears exploded into a swirling tornado of jade Ethra and essence flame. The blade, freed, resumed its fall, a meteor of judgment hurtling toward him.

  He could see the flicker of triumph in her gaze—the wild, defiant hope that maybe, maybe, she had turned the tide. And he grinned, a slow, sharp, almost cruel smile that made her falter.

  “You think to rise above your station,” he whispered, voice low, just for her.

  “But, dear cub… I am something far beyond your mortal existence. I have indulged your petulance long enough.”

  He clenched his fist. The tornado collapsed inward with a deafening bang, shards of jade Ethra slamming into the golden blade mid-fall, shattering it into motes of Ethra that dissolved into the vortex. Kavashi gasped, coughing blood, her body shuddering as a sliver of his true presence pressed down on her.

  He let it manifest—a jade-green humanoid ant, towering and alien, shrieking into existence as the very stage trembled, the protective barriers groaning under the strain. The ant’s cry resonated with an ancient, terrible authority—one that spoke of conquest, of dominion, of an empire that once was.

  The golden blade vanished into the tornado, which surged again, flowing into Zhu, merging with his form. He savored it—the rush of power, the knowledge, the taste of her Ethra. He had also picked up a fragment of Tunde’s bloodline ability, and oh, how he adored the way it fused with his own.

  When it was done, he released the pressure, letting Kavashi collapse into a shuddering heap. She tried to rise, gritting her teeth, but her body betrayed her. Zhu knelt beside her, gripping her jaw, forcing her to look at him—truly look.

  It wasn’t enough to break a foe’s body; the spirit had to be crushed too. But there was a line. A broken weapon left idle was a waste.

  “You’re strong,” he said softly, almost like a teacher correcting a student.

  “But I am something else entirely. If you wish to grow stronger… find me. I could always use a student.”

  He saw it in her eyes—the burning indignation, the pride, the stubborn refusal to yield. But deep beneath that, buried where even she didn’t want to admit, was something else.

  Admiration.

  He smiled, letting her fall away, dissolving into motes of light as she was removed from the stage.

  The announcer’s voice rang out, almost an afterthought:

  “Winner—Zhu of the Talahan clan!”

  But Zhu blinked, a flicker of sheepish realization crossing his features.

  Ah. He had forgotten to use his new lightning ability.

  ************

  Tunde folded his arms, nodding in quiet satisfaction as Zhu concluded the fight with a definitive, brutal strike. Now that—he thought with grim approval—was how you shut them up. His gaze shifted sideways, falling on Harumi, who sat cross-legged in a meditative posture, perfectly still, his breath slow and measured.

  The young cultivator radiated a calm focus, but Tunde knew the weight that pressed upon him. Harumi was preparing for a fight that would not only determine his standing in this tournament, but also test his very identity—and that fact stirred something in Tunde.

  This wasn’t just any opponent. This was personal. Harumi was about to face someone from Tunde’s past. And that carried a heaviness all its own.

  Zehra, on the other hand, had been a mess. After her defeat, she had shut herself away, refusing to see him, refusing even to speak. That rejection had stoked a fire of rage deep in Tunde’s chest, a fury that coiled and burned, though he had swallowed it down. He had bowed stiffly to Ujin in silent acceptance and left the premises, but the storm had simmered beneath his skin.

  And then, almost in the blink of an eye, they were gone—first Jing, now Zehra. He had watched in tight-lipped silence as the great skyvessel carried them away, Zehra’s leaving especially bitter, as it had been her reward for winning the third round. Watching her ship vanish into the skies felt like watching his own failures take flight—failures he could not chase, not yet.

  Two of his companions, lost. One because of grievous injuries, the other because of shame. And for once, Tunde did not blame himself.

  No. This time, he made a silent oath. One that burned brighter and sharper than any regret.

  He would face Rhyn. He would fight him. It was inevitable—they would have to pair them together, once he cleared this next hurdle. He was sure of it. That confrontation would come, and when it did, Tunde would show them all.

  Zhu had understood his intent, had seen the fire that was building within him, and for that, Tunde’s fury had eased—just a fraction. Now, it was Harumi’s turn.

  “He’ll taunt you,” Tunde said quietly, watching as Harumi’s eyes slid open, calm and dark as the night before a storm.

  “He’ll bait you into a false sense of security. Make you think you’re winning, that you’ve got the upper hand. And then he’ll strike—ruthless, brutal, like a predator who’s been playing with its food. It’ll hit you so hard, you’ll question everything you thought you knew.”

  Harumi listened in silence, his expression unreadable, but Tunde knew he was taking it in.

  “Back when I knew him…” Tunde’s voice dropped lower, the weight of memory pressing on his chest.

  “He was cold, calculating—but he knew the right thing to do. There was still something human in him, back then. Now?” His gaze hardened, flinty and sharp.

  “I don’t even recognize the filth that walks around wearing his skin. Thorne’s lost whatever sliver of humanity he had left.”

  “They say he killed his captain and most of his enclave members,” Harumi muttered, almost to himself.

  “He might as well have,” Tunde replied flatly.

  “He denies it, of course. Always did. But I wouldn’t trust a single word from that bastard’s mouth. Not Thorne.”

  He leaned forward; voice sharpened to a blade’s edge.

  “Whatever hidden cards you have, Harumi, play them. Whatever techniques you’ve been holding back—use them. Don’t wait. Don’t hesitate. Because I promise you, he won’t. And Thorne… he’s twice as hard to kill now.”

  The weight of those words hung heavy in the air, a grim warning. The announcer’s voice boomed through the arena, calling Harumi’s name for the next match. The young cultivator rose smoothly to his feet, his blade strapped to his side, his breath steady and deep. He gave a respectful nod toward Tunde and Zhu, the faintest trace of gratitude in his voice.

  “I understand. Thank you.”

  And with that, he turned, walking toward the massive stone doors that would take him to the stage. Zhu and Tunde watched in silence as the doors closed behind him, sealing him in.

  Zhu spoke first, his voice quiet, but laced with that ever-present knowing.

  “You don’t think he can do it.”

  Tunde didn’t look at him at first, his gaze still locked on the now-closed doors. When he finally turned, there was a heaviness in his eyes, a hard truth that settled like iron between them.

  “You know the difference between those cultivators we’ve faced so far—and us?”

  Zhu’s lips curled into a faint, grim smile.

  “They may claim to know battle,” he said, “but they fight for honor. We… we fight for our very existence.”

  Tunde nodded slowly, his voice low and dark.

  “Exactly. Jing, Zehra, and now… quite possibly Harumi. They fight for their clans, their factions, their reputations. To prove a point. We couldn’t care less about any of that. We fight because we have no other choice. And it shows—in every move, every strike, every kill. The same way it shows in Thorne.”

  Across the arena, the doors opened—and Thorne stepped out.

  Tunde felt his stomach twist. The man moved with that same infuriatingly lazy swagger, a cocky grin playing across his lips, his every step dripping with a casual arrogance designed to bait his opponent. Tunde could feel the trap he was setting, the way his entire presence was calibrated to lull Harumi into underestimating him.

  It was a game Tunde had seen before. One he could only pray Harumi wouldn’t fall for.

  “The student of the Saint might yet surprise us,” Zhu murmured, his tone soft, almost as if speaking to himself.

  Tunde exhaled, tension coiling in his gut like a storm waiting to break.

  He hoped that was true.